


A Little Wolf in Big Manhattan

by Forever_A_Thief



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Gen, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Russian Nicknames, brief mention of murdering a child, hand wavey science, no actual murder occurs, use of the Russian language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:34:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7569097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forever_A_Thief/pseuds/Forever_A_Thief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was something that none of them had thought would ever happen. Yes, they fought aliens and mad scientists and evil Nazi organizations on a daily basis, but they had never had to deal with one of their enemies getting turned into a child. What were they supposed to do with that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw: mention of living on the street and killing children, just mentions nothing gory

Brock woke up to an uncomfortably white hospital room, his body achy and sore, and his left wrist shoved into an improvised set of handcuffs. He looked around and noticed that the bed was much too large for him, so he was definitely not on the children’s ward. He glared down at the cuff on his wrist, staring at the padding that made the adult-sized metal cuffs small enough to fit around his own thin wrist. He tugged at it experimentally but was disappointed when he couldn’t slip through.

Just as he was starting to get bored, the door swung open to reveal a tall, blonde man. He hesitated in the doorway, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there, and Brock could relate. The guy didn’t look too happy to see Brock, but then again, Brock wasn’t too happy to see him, either. The blonde man was either a doctor or a cop, and going by the way he was dressed, Brock was leaning heavily towards ‘cop’.

He bit his lip, a nervous habit that the other boys hadn’t been able to beat out of him just yet, and stared at the man in trepidation the closer he came. Finally, he stopped moving closer, instead taking a seat beside Brock’s bed. He held a folder in his hands, something way thicker than anything Brock thought could be related to him.

When the silence stretched on for more than a minute, Brock gave in and spoke first. _Rookie mistake_ , Marco’s voice chided in annoyance in his head. Brock scowled at the thought, but pushed on anyway. “Who’re you?” he asked, proud that his voice only shook _a little bit_.

The man was silent for far too long to come up with an answer that should have been simple. Brock’s stomach started knotting up in anxiety; he hadn’t been on the street for very long yet, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to realize that being handcuffed to a bed probably wasn’t for his benefit. What if this wasn’t actually a hospital? What if this giant silent man had snatched him up off the street? He had heard horror stories from the other boys; they loved telling him things that left him shaking and frightened for days afterwards.

The guy’s face morphed through a quick succession of emotions before he settled on wary confusion, like he thought Brock was lying about not knowing who he was. “I’m Captain Steve Rogers.” Brock blanched. So, he _was_ a cop. Like, one of the big, _important_ cops. Captain Rogers’ face turned hard when he saw Brock’s reaction. He inched closer to Brock’s face, sneering down at him. “Remember me, do you?”

Brock just stared at him in confusion, trying to lean as far away as possible. “I don’t know what you mean, mister. I never seen you before. I don’t make a habit of running into cops.”

The Captain paused at that, the look of disgust on his face slowly draining away to horror and guilt. “I’m not a cop, Brock.” He watched Brock’s reaction carefully, before he continued, more softly this time, “I’m Captain America.”

The first thing Brock wanted to say was ‘ _what?!_ ’ but he held himself back like a champ. Even _he_ , street urchin and orphaned bastard, had heard of Captain America. Kids on the street played Howling Commandoes all the time, even if they weren’t totally sure who the Howling Commandoes _were_. But, Brock was pretty sure he had heard that Captain America had died, crashed in a giant plane somewhere in the snow up North.

Brock let all of that filter through his mind before he scowled up at the Captain, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Yeah, and I’m Santa Clause. I may not know a lot, but even I know that Captain America’s busy being an icicle in the snow somewhere.” He gave the Captain his best glare before turning away from him, shaking his head. He could already feel his face heating up uncomfortably and hated himself for giving that much of his thoughts away. “I don’t talk to cops. ‘ _Specially_ cops who think I’m stupid enough to fall for stories a _baby_ wouldn’t believe.”

The Captain gave him an exasperated huff, ran a hand over his face, and shook his head. Brock was too busy pouting at the far wall, but he heard it clearly when the man stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the tile floor, and then the Really-Bad-At-Lying cop left the room. Once he was sure he was gone, Brock sagged into his bed, feeling all of his anxiety and fear break through now that he was alone. He tried to tug on the cuff one more time, but it was no use; he was stuck, alone and scared, until the cop decided to let him go.

 

Steve stood outside of Brock’s room, his back pressed to the door as he tried to regulate his breathing. This was something that none of them had thought would ever happen. _Yes_ , they fought aliens and mad scientists and evil Nazi organizations on a daily basis, but they had never had to deal with one of their enemies getting turned into a _child_.

And don’t get him wrong, Steve _hated_ Brock Rumlow, with a _passion_. The man had pretended to be his friend while simultaneously working as the handler to Steve’s supposedly-dead best friend. He had never said a word, but after the Triskelion, Brock had used every opportunity he could to rub it in Steve’s face that Bucky had been a puppet for seventy years while Steve had slept in peace.

It was really, really hard to stay cold and angry towards Brock when he was currently six years old both physically and (apparently) mentally. If Brock truly didn’t remember what he had done as an adult, then Steve couldn’t in good conscience hold that grudge against him.

Steve wasn’t really sure what they were supposed to do with him now, though. Put him in foster care until they could figure out how to turn him back? But what if Hydra found him? They couldn’t let an innocent little kid get snatched up by evil Nazis, no matter who he used to be. Besides, even he had heard the horror stories of orphanages and group homes.

There was no good choice here.

When he had gathered his thoughts enough to be able to think clearly again, he moved further down the hall to the meeting room the rest of the Avengers had gathered in. No one had bothered to clean up after their latest battle, instead choosing to convene in the meeting room to hash out what should be done with Rumlow. It looked like they were still disagreeing, going by the general shouting, glaring, and hand waving happening.

Bucky was the only one who looked even remotely calm, standing off to the side by himself, staring at the screen that showed them Brock’s hospital room. Steve took a glance, just to make sure he was alright, and saw the fear and resignation on his tiny little face. Something uncomfortably heavy tugged at Steve’s chest, and he looked away, meeting Bucky’s eyes instead. He knew the kid was Rumlow, he knew he should hate his guts, but Rumlow was just a tiny, confused child now, and it hurt to see any child look that desperate.

Bucky stared back at Steve, his eyes cold and empty. Steve knew that if anyone could tell them if Rumlow was lying, it was Bucky.

“What do you think, Buck?” he asked quietly, watching the way Bucky hardly moved, just his chest going up and down softly. Bucky stared at the screen for a long moment before he turned back to Steve and shook his head.

“He’s telling the truth,” Bucky said softly, beneath the sound of everyone else shouting a few feet away. “He doesn’t seem to remember who you are, which means he shouldn’t remember anything about being an adult either. He’s confused and scared, trying to put up a strong front.” Bucky’s eyes unfocused for a long moment, zoning out before he came back, shaking his head like he was trying to shake something off. “He told Rollins once that he grew up on the street. I don’t know how old he was when he left foster care, but it seems he already distrusts the police, so it was sometime before six years old.”

“God, Bucky,” Steve breathed, scrubbing at his face tiredly.

The look they exchanged was full of meaning. Steve sighed, staring at his feet in contemplation, before he nodded. Bucky squared his shoulders, back straight and stiff, before he snapped a curt nod back and disappeared out the door. Steve gave him a five-minute head start, carefully not-watching the screen to Brock’s room.

Once Steve had given Bucky enough time to finish his task, he turned to glare at his teammates. “ _Enough_ ,” he bellowed, arms crossed over his chest threateningly as he towered over the others in the room. The sound cut off immediately, the others turning to stare at him in shock. “This is getting us nowhere. We obviously can’t leave Rumlow here; SHIELD will throw him in a cell and forget about him. Hydra will probably come after him, too. He’s not safe on his own; he has to come back to the Tower with us.”

Stark, of course, was the first to open his mouth and complain. “I don’t think so!” he argued. “I don’t want that piece of Hydra trash in my house.”

Steve softened slightly at that. He could understand wanting anything Hydra-related far, far away from the place where he slept. “I know you don’t want Rumlow there, but this is just a _kid_. He’s not the same at all. He’s just a little street smart six-year-old with a mouth on him that’s already started roughing it, but he’s still just a kid. He doesn’t remember us, or anything about being an adult. We can’t just leave him here.”

“Well, we can’t bring him with us, either,” Tony stated with finality, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away from the others like the conversation was over and done with.

Steve took a deep breath, rubbed his face, and turned exhausted eyes on his friends. “Fine. We won’t bring him back to the Tower. Me and Bucky will just take him back to our apartment in Brooklyn, then.”

Tony whirled around again, face shocked and appalled. “No! That’s even worse. What if he tries to smother you in your sleep? Or poison your food? Or runs away from you when you let your guard down? JARVIS won’t be able to help you all the way in _Brooklyn_!”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said, shrugging. “It’s either the apartment or the Tower, there aren’t any other options.”

Tony glared at Steve before he groaned and gave in. “ _Fine_. Fine! You want to bring the little monster home, he’s your responsibility.” He turned to glare at the screen with Rumlow’s room on it, only to freeze in confusion. “Where-uh, _where_ did the little monster go?”

“Oh, Bucky took him back to the Tower about fifteen minutes ago,” Steve said casually before he breezed out of the room. The others stared after him. Tony realized he had been played and stood there fuming for a good long while until the others started filtering out too, leaving with differing levels of amusement or worry on their faces. Finally, when he was alone, Tony glared up at the ceiling and cursed for a good, long minute.

Played by Captain America. The history books had been _so_ misleading.

 

Brock had been suspicious, but there was no way he could have survived as long as he had on the street if he _wasn’t_ a healthy amount of suspicious pretty much all the time. But the guy with the awesome robot arm had said they needed to get somewhere safe, and that he didn’t have to live on the streets anymore, and they were even going to get pizza with his friends at the robot-guy’s apartment.

Brock’s resolve had sort of crumbled right around, “You don’t have to sleep in the gutter any longer, Маленький волк.” Brock hadn’t had a clue what the man had called him, but it had been said softly and kindly, and Brock hadn’t heard a soothing word sent his way in a long, long time.

He wanted to be safe, he wanted to sleep in a real bed, and pizza he didn’t have to dumpster-dive for sounded really, really good right about now. He thought that his stomach might just start digesting itself if he didn’t get something soon.

Remy and Colin and Marco would probably call him a stupid little baby for believing this man, for trusting him, for going off with him and not running in the other direction immediately.

But. _Pizza_. And cool robot guys couldn’t really lie anyway, right? He was pretty sure that ‘no lying’ was one of the rules of being a robot.

The man had snapped the cuffs with his metal fingers, just one flick of the wrist and the metal was sliding away from his skin. Brock rubbed his wrist, even though it really didn’t hurt, and saw the man’s eyes soften ever so slightly. Maybe he really _was_ on Brock’s side, then. Not like that lying Captain America wannabe.

The man held out his metal hand to Brock and helped him hop off the bed, before slipping his grip so he was holding Brock’s hand lightly in his own. Brock marveled at the metal appendage, how large the man’s hand was compared to his own, how delicate his touch was around Brock’s hand. Brock was sure that he had never, in all his life, been touched so carefully before.

They had walked down to a parking garage together, hand in hand like they belonged there, and no one tried to stop them. The guy had stopped in front of a really, really nice car and helped Brock crawl into the back seat, strapping him in tightly before taking the front seat for himself.

“Who are you, mister?” he forced out once he was done gawking out the window. They were still in the city, but there were more lights than he remembered and people everywhere. The man didn’t answer until they were pulling into another parking garage, this time beneath a really tall, really fancy building. It was really elegant and posh too, a perfect match to the car.

“My name is Barnes,” the man said, pulling into a parking spot and turning the car off. He opened the back door and helped Brock hop out before he continued, taking Brock’s hand once more. “I’m a… _superhero_ , I guess you could say.” He led them over to the elevator while Brock gaped up at him. Barnes turned to look down at him, meeting his eyes as he said very seriously, “We’re gonna keep you safe until we get this all figured out. You have nothing to worry about.”

Brock chewed that over as they rode in the elevator, a warm feeling spreading from his chest and out to his body. Sure, the other boys had said they would keep him safe too, but whenever the cops showed up they bolted and left him behind.

He was always being left behind.

“Why would superheroes care about me? I’m just a stupid street kid.” Why would superheroes care about him, when his family never did, when his friends never did? It just made no sense.

Barnes stared down at Brock, his gaze piercing and hard, before he seemed to deflate right there in front of Brock. He took a knee down in front of the kid, kneeling so they could see eye-to-eye. Barnes placed his mismatched hands carefully over Brock’s slight shoulders and squeezed softly. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” he admitted, shaking Brock’s shoulders lightly. “But, a few hours ago, you were even older than _me_. You got hit by some kind of ray-thing, and now you’re a little kid again.” He sighed, looking down at the floor for a moment, before he pushed on. “We weren’t real good buddies when you were older, in fact you hurt me and my friends a lot, but I can’t hold that against you right now. You’re just a little kid, and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Brock gnawed on his lip, staring up at Barnes the Robot Man uncertainly.

“I was bad?” he asked, voice tiny and shaken and scared.

Barnes sighed. “ _Kind of_. I don’t think it was really all your fault, though. A lot of bad things happened in your life that lead you to being the man you were. You were just kind of – stuck.”

Brock stared down at his feet until the elevator stopped. Barnes stood up and took Brock’s hand again, leading him further into the apartment. Brock seemed like he was hell bent on remaining morose and guilty, but his natural curiosity quickly overcame any other feelings as he looked around.

“You can look at things, if you like,” Barnes said, amusement evident in his voice as he watched Brock’s eyes widen even more. “Just don’t break anything. I’m going to order those pizzas.” He wandered into the kitchen, silently blessing Stark for having such a love affair with open floor plans; he could see everything Brock touched from his spot at the kitchen island.

“If I was older than _you_ this morning, then that means this is the _future_ , right? Are there robots? Or flying cars? Or teleporters? The guy that ran the group home I used to live at loved Star Trek, always yelled at us to shut up when it was on TV. _They_ had teleporters!”

Bucky set down the phone he had used to order the pizzas and glided back into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa before answering Brock’s rapid fire questions.

“Sorry, kid. No flying cars.” At Brock’s devastated expression, Bucky nodded in sympathy. “I know, I was disappointed, too. There _are_ robots, though. And I don’t think anybody has teleporters, yet.” Brock pouted at that information.

“What good is it being in the future if there isn’t anything they said there would be?” he complained, kicking at the carpet with his bare feet; somewhere along the way, the kid had lost his shoes. Bucky couldn’t really blame him, though; they had just picked up the first pair of tiny tennis shoes they had seen, they probably hadn’t been very comfortable.

“Sorry, buddy.” Brock just rolled his eyes and huffed, before scooching over to Bucky’s side, looking hopeful but like he thinks Bucky will tell him to leave him alone. Bucky was very good at reading body language, though, and didn’t hesitate to reach out and scoop him up, setting him on the sofa beside him.

Bucky ran a hand down Brock’s back, watching as he slowly unwound. JARVIS flipped the television on for them, an old episode of Star Trek springing to life. Brock smiled sleepily before burrowing closer into Bucky’s side.

Brock was out cold two minutes later, and Bucky moved him so he was lying flat on the sofa, a pillow beneath his head and a blanket thrown over his body. Bucky watched him for a loaded moment, debating his next movement.

He could go to the kitchen, wait in silence for the rest of the team or the pizza to arrive, he could lay down with Brock and try to get some rest himself, or he could take a pillow and place it over Brock’s face until he stopped breathing.

Bucky used to be the Winter Soldier; he had done far worse things to children than break his promises or smother them to death. Rumlow had been his handler for almost ten years before the fiasco in D.C. Bucky had _every right_ to hate the man, to want him _dead_.

But then he would look down at the boy sprawled across the sofa, so tiny and vulnerable and fragile. The boy was not the man, the same way that Barnes was not the Winter Soldier. At least, not anymore.

He couldn’t do it, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to see one more lifeless child’s body before him. Instead, he lifted Brock up once more and slid beneath his body, lying down on the couch and settling Brock on top of his chest, tucking the blanket around him snugly.

“Time to sleep, Маленький волк.” Brock snored loudly into his ear and Barnes chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Time to sleep.” He trailed off his words, closed his eyes, and let himself float in the moment, feeling more comfortable and calm than he had in a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So sorry that this took me forever to update. But I really think it might be worth it, I'm really proud of this chapter, it's probably the best thing I've written in months! Please let me know what you guys think and again, sorry about taking so long to update. It's a common problem of mine, sadly. Anyway, enjoy!

As a small child, James Buchanan Barnes had never been prone to a racing heart or fits of nerves. His life had consisted of the thrill of adventure, of discovery, of _this is new_ , _what is this_ , _what does it do_ , _can I touch it_ , _what does it feel like_ -? His racing thoughts and unrelenting curiosity overrode any fear of the unknown.

And then he had met Steven ‘I-Rush-Into-Danger-Without-Thinking’ Rogers and he had had _nothing but_ a racing heart and fits of nerves. That boy had caused him more sleepless nights and panic attacks than he was willing to admit to. His relationship with the idiot was worth it, he supposed, but it was the principle of the thing.

Things had been so much simpler before Steve.

Well.

Before breaking up fights in back alleys from grade school ‘til they were both in their twenties-

Before the war that broke him in ways he couldn’t put into words but Steve had seen, he had _seen_ Bucky on that table at Azzano, he had _seen_ Bucky zone out, _freak out_ , fly into rage and settle into preternatural still-

Before the fall, before the seventy years of _hell_ as Hydra’s puppet, their pet assassin, their Asset-

Before Rumlow shouting in the street while the buildings around him shook and shattered with the force of the bombs he had set off, screaming at Steve every horrible, vicious, heartless thing the Winter Soldier had ever done with a shit-eating smirk on his face-

Bucky felt his heart beat triple-time in his chest even in unconsciousness. Rumlow had revealed some of the Soldier’s worst crimes and, even though he knew Steve would never look at him any differently, it had still hit him hard, sent his heart sinking through his feet in the aftermath.

Some of the things Rumlow had said were things that Bucky hadn’t even remembered yet.

_Did you know, your best pal, your buddy, your Bucky, he stabbed an ambassador through the skull while the guy begged and his kid watched? Did you know, he blew up a protest in Prague one time, killed almost three hundred people in ten seconds? Did you know, did you know, did you know?_

In that moment, Bucky had seen red. He hadn’t cared what the consequences might be, what Steve might say about murder, what the politicians and media would scream about him next; he had wanted to _kill_ Brock Rumlow, Hydra bastard, ex-handler to the Winter Soldier, and one of the thousands of monsters under Bucky’s bed.

He had taken one step forward, one heel-to-toe step, the sound like the bang of a gunshot in the silence that had followed the bombing and Rumlow’s harsh words, and then the world had gone black.

Bucky had dropped to the ground in reflex, covering his ears and his eyes and waiting for the worst to happen. There was a buzzing in the air, stealing his hearing, and an unbearably bright light, stealing his sight.

He waited, and he waited, and finally he heard the faint sounds of screaming. That was enough warning for him, and he raised his head, squinting through the dust of the remains of what looked to be another bombing.

Quickly, he scanned the area, already standing and moving in one fluid movement. He had always been graceful; in dancehalls in the thirties, on battlefields in Italy, in the field for Hydra and then, later, the Avengers. This grace was something that had saved him multiple times, hundreds, thousands, even.

He used it to save himself one more time.

A bullet whizzed past his face and he ducked, twisted, and then slammed his foot into the chest of the man that had shot it. They were being attacked, he had to warn the others, but his comm had dislodged itself at some point, probably when he had slammed himself down to the ground. From the sounds of things, there wasn’t much need for warning, anyhow.

He saw the Widow before he ever heard her, as she had been trained. Her brilliant red hair was the only heads up he got before she was in his face, over his assailant’s shoulder, a garrote wire wrapped around the guy’s neck. She kept eye contact with Barnes the entire time his assailant struggled, something visceral and yearning in that look, but he shrugged it off almost immediately.

They knew they had a past together. But Barnes wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole, not yet, at least. Perhaps one day. Perhaps never.

She rolled her eyes at him as he broke eye contact and the assailant fell to the ground, unconscious. She covered his flank as he stormed closer to the origin of the blast; there were charred remains on the ground, something had definitely gone off.

Rogers was standing in the smoking ruins of the street, his shield steaming but otherwise intact. No doubt the numbskull had hid behind it, expecting it to protect him like he always did. The blast hadn’t originated with Rogers, though; no, it was a few feet to his right, where Rumlow had been.

Barnes could admit that he felt a warring of emotions at the idea; he was sure that a blast of that size must have surely finished the job that building had started months before, but he was also furious that his hand would not be the one that finished the bastard off.

The Widow stood at his shoulder, poised for attack though looking just as calm and composed as ever. There was barely any soot on her, from the earlier fighting, or from the more recent explosions.

They came to stand with the Captain, grim expressions on their faces though they all had to admit that no one would miss Brock Rumlow.

And then there was movement, where no movement should have been.

Barnes saw red once more, and this time it wasn’t the Widow’s hair.

The monster would not _die_ , would not go _naturally_ into the cold hands of death. _Why_?

Despite himself, that insatiable curiosity of his youth, that deep-down need to _know_ , to _understand_ took over him, and he took a step forward, and then another, and another, until he was standing over the smoking ruins of Rumlow’s tactical armor.

The vest was moving.

The vest _should not_ have been moving.

As if from a great distance, far away in a safe spot in his mind where he didn’t have to think about his actions, Barnes reached out and tugged the material away.

There was a child there, where a child should not be.

It was impossible.

Rid- _iculous_.

 _Insane_.

But then again, they dealt every day in the impossible, ridiculous, and insane.

This instance just _hurt_ a little more.

“Buck,” Rogers said, his voice unsure, more like the Kid-From-Brooklyn than the Captain-From-America.

“I don’t understand,” the Widow said, her tone of voice matching the Captain’s but her face remained a hard mask; she understood just fine, just like Barnes did. This was their life, now. Weird shit happened every day. This was no weirder.

“What was in that bomb?” Barnes asked plainly, and that got the others’ attention quicker than anything else he could have said. They stood to their full heights and looked around for any sign of the attack, while Barnes remained crouched on the ground, tugging more material away from the dirty child, unconscious on the war-zone of a street. There was nothing to find, and Barnes already knew it.

He grabbed Rumlow by the vest, swung him into his arms, and refused to follow the memory slicing through his mind, a tiny dark-haired baby, a little girl, placed in his arms hours after his mother had given birth ( _a little sister, aren’t you so excited, James_?) He refused, he refused, he wouldn’t, not _now_.

The memory faded but the weight of the child-that-was-not-a-child remained, so light yet so heavy at the same time.

What _the hell_ had happened?

And what _the fuck_ were they supposed to do with him?

 

“I don’t believe his little _act_ for a second,” Tony growled the moment the doors opened onto the communal floor. Barnes’ eyes flew open at the sound, wrenched from his memories, from his disturbed sleep, from his dream-that-was-not-a-dream.

Someone was rummaging in the kitchen but Barnes was hesitant to wake Rumlow; the boy had looked exhausted before Barnes had gotten him to sleep, likely overwhelmed and frightened but too tired to fight off the comfort of a soft sofa and a calming presence.

The sounds of exasperation following Stark’s entrance were varying; he could see most of them from his spot on the couch, and he could read all of them ( _most of them_ ) fairly well by now. Barton seemed to find this entire situation hilarious, hiding a smirk behind his cell phone as he thumbed away at it; Dr. Banner looked equal parts intrigued and thoroughly _done_ ; and Romanoff was simply glaring at him, with her signature You’re-A-Goddamn-Dumbass look that she wore so well.

“I’m just saying. He’s probably trying to worm his way into our good graces so we don’t throw his ass in jail, with his cute little smile and his tiny face and his giant eyes and his-,”

“Complete lack of understanding?” Barnes rumbled from his spot on the couch. He watched Stark turn around to glare at him. Barnes returned the look, in no mood to pander to the egotist. All Stark wanted was people to listen to him, and Barnes had soundly squashed that with half a sentence.

“I’ve spent some time with him. He wouldn’t be able to fake that kind of wonder, or fear, or surprise. He also wouldn’t have let himself be seen as something so vulnerable, even if his life depended on it.” He turned to send them his iciest Winter Soldier glare. “He’s not faking. Now _drop it_.”

Stark grumbled but he saw that the others seemed to be taking his word for it. “I still think he’s going to somehow use his _cuteness_ to strangle us in our sleep,” he muttered, before disappearing into the kitchen to join Rogers.

“I have to admit,” Barton managed between snorts of unbridled laughter, “I really wouldn’t put it past the bastard. But really, I can’t picture him allowing himself to cuddle with the Winter Soldier. Not even on _pain of death_.”

Barnes felt his arms tighten around the kid still somehow dozing on his chest. All of this conversation would surely wake the boy. But then, the kid had been living on the streets, so _surely_ he wasn’t this light of a sleeper?

Barnes felt the glare taking hold of his face before he could restrain it, as he reached down and jerked the boy’s chin up, meeting wide, wild eyes with his own.

The kid had been faking sleep.

And _well_.

(Barnes hadn’t even fucking _noticed.)_

“Sorry!” Rumlow was already apologizing, gaze running rapid-fire from Barton to Romanoff to Barnes and back again. His cheeks were flaming red in embarrassment and his eyes were beginning to brim with tears. Romanoff raised an eyebrow, but Barton was the one that said what they were all thinking, letting off a long, slow whistle of surprise.

“Hot damn. He really _isn’t_ lying then. Never seen Rumlow cry before, and I was there on that mission where he nearly lost a fucking _leg_.”

Everyone turned their attention back to Rumlow, who was looking more and more uncomfortable as he peeked around the room. He carefully leaned back against Barnes’ chest, biting his lip as he looked up at the older man.

“Am I in trouble for lyin’, Mr. Barnes?”

The room echoed in silence for a long moment, and then Barton broke it by cracking up laughing almost immediately after. He was howling next to Romanoff, leaning on her for support, one hand on her shoulder while he bent in half and used his other hand to wipe away mirthful tears.

Rumlow was staring at Barton like he had never seen a creature quite like him before. His eyes were wide, his cheeks pale now that he had something else to focus on, and he was calm and compliant in Barnes’ hands when he moved them to a sitting position.

“Are these the friends you were talkin’ about?” When Barnes gave him a single, solemn nod, Rumlow turned to take in Barton and Romanoff one more time, before he leaned back and whispered (none too quietly), “They’re kinda _weird_ , aren’t they?”

Barnes didn’t waste a moment, nodding solemnly once more, the words, “That they are,” out of his mouth before he even had time to think. Because yes, these people were the frickin’ _weirdest_.

“Does that mean we get to eat pizza now?” Rumlow asked, turning wide, hopeful eyes onto Barnes even as Barton straightened up, looking indignant and put-upon all in one facial expression.

“You promised him _pizza_? Without consulting _me_? I am _the pizza extraordinaire_ , Barnes, where was my input?”

Barnes turned back to him, one eyebrow raised in firm disbelief. “You would eat cold pizza off the floor if Romanoff didn’t stop you. How does that make you a _pizza extraordinaire_? Other than the fact that you somehow don’t get sick off of it.”

Barton sputtered in disgrace, and Barnes left him to it, Romanoff on his heels a moment later with a simple shrug in Barton’s direction. Rumlow was riding in Barnes’ arms like he fit there and Barnes once more had to shove away vivid flashes of holding his sisters, all of them tiny and breakable and _not_ Rumlow, _fuck_ , go _away_.

He walked through the doorway and into the kitchen, where Rogers had somehow magicked the pizza through the entire floor with no one noticing and then had disappeared himself somewhere. Rumlow stared at the stack of boxes like he couldn’t believe his eyes, and it left something aching and painful stabbing into Barnes’ chest like an ice pick.

It was uncomfortable, but it was familiar.

He set Rumlow in a seat and then sat down himself, Rumlow on one side and Romanoff on the other. She always made him nervous, what with her knowing mind and her knowing smirk and knowing _everything_. It made him uncomfortable, that they had this past, this _something_ between them that he hadn’t found yet, but that she seemed to remember completely and wholeheartedly, and was just waiting for him to catch up.

It left him floundering most of the time, and he hated that feeling, so instead of confronting her about it, he turned around and dragged a pizza box towards him, uncaring of what kind it was, and threw three large slices down on Rumlow’s plate, adding a few to his own at the same time.

He tried not to watch the kid, but he had never been able to ignore children. His old handlers had all noted the knack he had with little ones; they had said it was an abnormality, that his conditioning and programming should have overridden it, but somehow it always came back.

The missions with children were always the _worst_.

He saw Rumlow eye the food, a glint of distrustfulness in his eye, before he cast a furtive glance around at the others gathered around the table and snatched a slice, shoving nearly the entire thing in in one go.

The table quieted as they all stared at Brock Rumlow shoving now _two_ whole slices of pizza in his mouth, his cheeks puffed out uncomfortably like a chipmunk. He tried to chew and found it difficult, his face screwing up in concentration as he worked the food around in his mouth.

Finally, it seemed the spell had been broken as Barton, once again the one smashing all of their awkward silences to pieces with his own awkwardness, said, “I’m kinda impressed. But I think he’s gonna _choke_.”

Rumlow was looking a little red in the face, but Barnes didn’t think it was because of lack of oxygen. He had finally looked up to find five pairs of eyes staring at him and he apparently didn’t like it.

“Slow. Down,” Barnes demanded, his voice brooking no defiance. Rumlow turned to look at him with his puffed up cheeks, and then turned to his plate and slowly spit the half-chewed pizza back out.

Stark and Barton groaned in disgust, covering their eyes and moaning in displeasure like _they_ were the children. Romanoff just sighed and traded Rumlow’s plate for a fresh one with a single, small slice of pizza on it.

Stark and Barton were still gagging and complaining loudly from the other side of the table, but it was more playful now, as they shoved and pushed at each other, trading insults and dares towards each other. When he checked the rest of the table, he noticed the pensive looks on the faces of Dr. Banner and Romanoff. They were both watching Rumlow physically restraining himself from scarfing the food down, far away, sad looks on their faces.

And Barnes could understand why, at least. He could commiserate.

Barnes could remember a childhood where there had been six mouths to feed and not enough food to go around at times. He knew what it was like to always be hungry, to have that constant ache in his belly and have to ignore it like it was just a fact of life. He knew what it was like to be given a feast and not know what to do with it other than to shove it all in at once before it was taken away.

He couldn’t blame the kid for acting the way he had.

Barnes had been to war with a super soldier metabolism hidden under the radar, surviving on field rations and pure iron will. It had probably been a fucking miracle he had survived long enough on so little to even get to the train, let alone be of any use to anyone.

And being a Hydra asset, well. That taught him a thing or two about surviving on pure goddamn iron will, too. They had rarely given him solid food, let alone anything filling or tasty. That goddamn nightmare had been an experience, he supposed.

It all left him so fucking _grateful_ for what he had in front of him now, like it was manna from heaven and not just some cheap greasy take-out pizza from a Mom-and-Pop shop somewhere in Queens.

He knew Rumlow, who was fresh off the streets, was nowhere near ready to consider food as something that was just going to magically appear for every meal, but Barnes supposed he was going to be stuck with them for a while, at the least. Perhaps the kid would learn a thing or two, in that time.

“Oh, you started without me,” Rogers said, re-entering the room like he had never been gone. The others grunted in response, but Barnes noticed Rumlow go stiff beside him and mentally prepared for the worst.

“You lied to me!” the kid screamed, throwing the half-eaten piece of pizza he was holding at Rogers before slamming a blunt hand onto Barnes’ arm a few dozen times. His eyes were screwed shut but Barnes could read the animal terror in his body language, in his screaming, in his heart rate jack-hammering in his chest.

The kid peeled his eyes open long enough to find an exit and he took it, booking it out of the kitchen and disappearing into the living room. They heard a pitiful slam against metal, and then a long, drawn-out, “Owwwww.”

Barnes was the first one out of his chair and striding into the living room, full of determination. He wasn’t entirely sure what was going through Rumlow’s mind, but that didn’t matter at the moment.

He had to prevent Rumlow from harming himself, and _then_ he could figure out _why_ he had been harming himself.

Mission: _accepted_.

The boy was banging on the doors to the elevator, but JARVIS was incredibly smart, and wouldn’t be opening them any time soon. There were tears streaming down Rumlow’s cheeks, his small fists barely making a sound against the metal panes. He was shaking slightly, whether from fear or exhaustion, Barnes wasn’t sure.

“You’re a _cop_ ,” the boy moaned, like it was the worst thing someone could possibly be. “This was all a big _trick_. I _knew_ _it_.” He turned around, his back to the elevator doors. His glare was quite effective for someone so small, the tears and the anger and the confusion adding to the effect. “I didn’t do _nothing_! I _swear_! Just _don’t_ send me _back_!”

The tension in the room was palpable and no doubt pressing down on Rumlow like a heavy weight. His shoulders were tense, his face cast in a rictus of fear, his arms and legs shaking in uncertainty.

“Brock!” Rogers sighed, looking smaller than he had in more than seventy years. Barnes watched him move with detached confusion; where once there had been the hulking figure of Captain America, there now was the slighter, calmer visage of Steve Rogers superimposed over his form.

Barnes knew it wasn’t real, just a trick of his eye, something that happened sometimes, but it made his breath catch when Rogers shifted his weight just _so_ , so he was crouched down in front of Rumlow, hands reaching out to rest on the boy’s shoulders, even as he flinched and shied away.

“It’s alright, Brock. I know this is a lot to take in right now, and you’re probably really scared and really confused.” His voice was tight, like he wanted to say more, _do_ more, but was holding himself back. His eyes were sparking dangerously, but Barnes knew he was no threat to the boy.

Captain America-no. _Steve Rogers_ would never do such a thing.

He was too goddamn moral to even _try_.

“It’s okay. I already told you, back at the facility. I’m not a cop. I _really am_ _Captain America_. And that, over there, that’s my friend, Bucky Barnes.” He turned, one hand still on Brock’s shoulder, as he pointed back at Barnes.

Rumlow shook his head hard, eyes squeezed shut tight, looking like the world’s most obstinate five year old. The signs of a panic attack were obvious, with the shortness of breath and uncontrollable shaking, so Barnes decided to step in.

He pushed Rogers out of the way and took his spot, kneeling so he could be eye-to-eye with Rumlow. “Brock,” he growled softly, the same voice he had used earlier to calm the boy. Perhaps it would work again. Sure enough, Rumlow opened his eyes, those eyes that the Asset had looked into so many times, the eyes that glared back at him unforgivingly, with glee as they strapped him in to be wiped, as they-

But, no. Those weren’t the same eyes staring at him, nor the same person kneeling on the floor in a mess of fear and anxiety.

He was not the same.

Just as Barnes was not the same.

Not. Any. More.

“Маленький волк,” he said, the same words from earlier, something that had seemed to calm him then and was working to calm him now. Romanoff hummed behind him, but he ignored her. “I did not lie to you,” he said with such strong conviction, such matter-of-factness, that Rumlow could not possibly disbelieve him.

The boy halted his movements, his shaking and his crying and his suffocating _fear_ , and practically _melted_ onto the floor, looking up to Barnes for the answers he needed.

“What’s going _on_?” he finally pleaded, so confused and frightened and just _done_.

Barnes hesitated for only a moment before he leaned closer to Rumlow, eye to eye, nose to nose, no room for confusion.

“Do you trust me?”

Rumlow bit his lip, hesitating just for a moment before he finally nodded, his shoulders swaying beneath the admission.

“Good.” He turned and pointed an unyielding finger into the face of his Captain. “That really is Captain America, Steve Rogers,” he revealed, nodding in decisiveness. There were days he still had to convince himself of this fact, but it was a fact worth remembering. “They found him in the ice a few years ago. You actually worked on the same team as him for a few months.” Rumlow’s face was full of suspicion, but he also had a tinge of something else. Guilt, perhaps? With a splash of embarrassment, too, if Barnes wasn’t crazy.

“I lied to you then, didn’t I? Mr. Barnes said I was a bad guy.” He frowned up at Rogers, his shoulders slumped down in shame and defeat as the gravity of his adult life seemed to crash down around him. “I grew up to _lie to Captain America_?!”

Rogers’ face had gone through a funny slide of emotions, from anger to fury to defeat to acceptance. His face softened slowly, like he was giving something up, letting something go, and his eyes were far kinder than the burning cinders they had been earlier. “It’s fine, Brock. I said so, remember?” he said softly, gently. “You know, I would be scared in your shoes, too. We haven’t really been the most welcoming, have we? Or really explained much of what’s going on? I’m so sorry about that, really. But you can trust my word that none of us will hurt you.” His mouth twisted up into a half-formed grin, something obviously forced but trying _so hard_ not to be that it was almost real, as he said, “And yeah, you did lie to me for a really long time. But that’s not on _you_ , Brock. I won’t hold it against _you_.”

Rumlow was silent for a few heavy moments, as the others waited to see which way this would swing. Finally, Rumlow sighed, nodding, looking exhausted. He turned old eyes up to meet Barnes’ stare, biting his lip and just _waiting_ for what was to come next.

“It’s getting late,” Barnes decided, reaching out and scooping the kid up into his arms, toting him into the elevator when JARVIS opened the doors for him. “Time for bed.” He gave Rogers a hard look before staring straight ahead, asking the kid, “It okay if Rogers comes with us? It’s his floor, too.”

Rumlow grumbled but nodded in the end, peeking around Barnes’ shoulder shyly to get another glimpse of the American icon as he moved to stand beside Barnes. Rogers just smiled at him, still uncomfortable with children even after all these years of pandering to the public.

They rode down to their floor together in silence, Barnes feeling an almost vicious glee when the doors closed on their teammates and they were plunged into blessed quiet.

“If I was a bad guy,” Rumlow started, shifting uncomfortably in Barnes’ arms, suddenly looking very fragile and uncertain, far too breakable to be anywhere near Barnes, “then why are you being so nice to me, Mr. Barnes? You said I was mean to you.”

“Like Rogers said,” Barnes shrugged, overjoyed that it was an easy answer, an easy escape, so he wouldn’t have to dig any deeper for meaning than the very surface, “I don’t hold that stuff against you. You’re just a kid.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, resting his head against Barnes’ shoulder just long enough to fall asleep once more, before they even stepped foot into their apartment. Barnes sighed; he could already feel the drool seeping into his t-shirt.

He took Rumlow to the first guest room he came to, nestled safely between Rogers’ bedroom and Barnes’ own, tugged the blankets up around the kid’s shoulders, left a dim light on in the corner just in case, kept the door slightly ajar, and leaned against the wall, staring at nothing for a moment, just to catch his breath.

Maybe to remember he needed to breathe in the first place.

Rogers was leaning right there next to him when he came back to himself, minor panic attack averted with steady, controlled breathing he remembered teaching to Stevie, _little Stevie_ , a whole _lifetime_ ago.

“It’ll be okay, Buck. We’ll figure out what happened. It won’t be forever,” Rogers promised, rattling one off after the other as if he wasn’t quite sure which one would make Barnes feel better, so he just settled on saying anything that came to mind.

In the end, it worked pretty well.

Barnes wasn’t sure what he was worried about, really. But just having Rogers at his side, Romanoff at his flank, the others supporting him and shielding him and working right alongside him helped, too.

He needed that. _God_ , but did he need that.

Especially now.

 _Fuck_ , but they led _weird_ lives.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, hey...  
> Look who finally put a new chapter out!
> 
> So sorry for the wait, guys. It's been a busy last 6 months but I'm finally finished with college so I should have some more time to write. Please enjoy this 'I'm sorry for being gone so long so have this monster of a chapter' gift!

Barnes’ memory was shoddy at best, giving him snippets of his past every now and then, and not always in order, so half the time he had no context for the scenes flashing across his mind.

Not to mention every new memory gave him a brand new migrane to deal with.

He couldn’t remember everything, but there were some things he knew for sure.

Barnes had grown up with three younger sisters back when he had still been a person the first time around. He remembered how Becca, the oldest girl, had followed him around when they were kids, tagging along, trying to be just like him even if Bucky had to admit that he hadn’t been the best role model for a young girl to be modelling herself after. Mary and Hannah, the younger two, had still been wee little things the last time he had seen them, no more than twelve and ten when he had shipped out. They had still been figuring out who they were, torn between chafing against their big brother’s protectiveness and reveling in it.

And then The War had come and none of it had mattered anyway.

Their big brother was considered KIA, his funeral practically a footnote in comparison to the procession for Captain America two weeks later. He often wondered if they mourned for long, or if the pain had faded to an ache and then to a sad memory over time. Sometimes he wondered how they moved on, if they moved on at all.

Did they still mourn him while he was off shooting foreign dignitaries, starting wars and ending them, intimidating and torturing and murdering his way around the world? He wondered sometimes, if they would recognize him now. What he had become was nothing like James Buchanan Barnes, he was sure, but Rogers was always harping on about the little things that stayed the same no matter how much the Germans and the Russians and, eventually, the Americans had tried to burn them out of him.

He still put too much sugar in his coffee.

He still leaned against walls when he was bored, like he was trying to hold them up with his shoulders alone.

He still smirked like an ass when Steve did something stupid.

And he still had that goddamn protective streak a mile or more wide. His baby sisters would have been proud of that, at least.

But right now, the newest addition to his tiny bubble of people he Had to Protect was getting dangerously close to the much larger horde of people he Wouldn’t Mind Knocking Out (Just a Bit, Really).

Rumlow was not adhering to Barnes’ preconceived notion that young children slept in. Barnes wasn’t quite sure where, in his nearly 100 years of living, he had picked that thought up, but it was there and it was currently being squashed to death by the tiny torpedo of flailing child that had barrel rolled right into him at six in the morning, dashing all of Barnes’ slight hope for a lazy morning in.

Or that the previous day had been some sort of weird fever dream.

It wasn’t like Barnes hadn’t already been awake, either, but it was the _principle_ of the thing.

He didn’t want to get out of bed at six in the motherfucking morning. That was what responsible people with things like steady jobs and routines and families had to do.

He was a _superhero_ , dammit. He was entitled to a good lay in if he wanted.

However, the squirmy little mass currently shoving a bony elbow directly into his spine took that option away. Barnes had no choice now but to drag his lazy old ass out of bed.

“ _Rumlow_ ,” Barnes growled, shoving his face back in his pillow to get just a few more moments of rest, “ _Why_ are you awake so damn early?” When he got no immediate response, Barnes twisted around just enough to tug the blanket out of his face so he could give the kid his most disgruntled bitch face. It didn’t come out so much disgruntled as exhausted, though, when Barnes blinked painfully at the bright light filtering into his room, momentarily blinded.

When his eyes finally cleared, he saw that Rumlow was far too bright eyed for anybody at this ungodly hour. The sun wasn’t even up all the way, dammit.

“’Cuz I always gotta get up real early. Me and the other kids, we gotta find our own food, y’see, and if we’re real careful-like, the rich jerkfaces never even notice when we lift their wallets! They’re too focused on getting to work, they never look down an’ take notice a no street kid!”

Barnes blinked at Rumlow, letting that sink in for a good long moment before flopping back against the pillows and groaning. _Great_ , they had a little tiny pickpocket on their hands, too. Rumlow fell quiet at that, and when Barnes peeked up at him again, he saw how the kid had folded in on himself, his bright smile now nothing but a memory as he bit at his lip.

And didn’t that just make Barnes feel like a grade A jerk? He hadn’t meant to make the kid _sad_. That mournful little frown had _no right_ to be on that kid’s adorable little face.

“Y’don’t gotta worry ‘bout that kinda stuff here. Okay, kid? Stark’s super mega rich, and he watches out for all of us. He’ll watch out for you, too. You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout having enough to eat, y’hear?”

Rumlow still didn’t look too sure, but he nodded all the same. “Yessir,” he mumbled, staring down at his hands dejectedly, shoulders slumped. Barnes couldn’t bare that kid’s poor sad face for much longer. It was doing things to his chest, things he hadn’t felt in a while, probably since his sisters. Or maybe the last time Rogers did something stupid. It was a toss-up, really.

Choosing to ignore the fluttering in his chest, Barnes instead reached out to ruffle the kid’s hair, maybe a little too roughly but the kid was made of tough enough stuff. He just sort of toppled over into the mountain of covers on the bed, disappearing momentarily until he resurfaced, that roguish little grin back on his face one more, as it should be.

Barnes swung his legs out bed, grumbling to himself as he tried to gather enough willpower to actually stand up. Frankly, he was surprised he had managed it this far. Most days it was a battle just to crawl his way out of bed, and it was a downright miracle if it was before ten or eleven o’clock.

As he was sitting there psyching himself up, Barnes felt a tiny fluttering against his back, and instantly whipped his head around. The kid was sitting there behind him, eyes wide like saucers, stupidly blue and, to Barnes’ surprise, quickly filling with tears. The kid’s eyes were locked onto the scar he was tracing with his fingertips, mouth working but no words or sounds were making their way out.

Barnes could relate; there were times when he had the same problem. A million and one things he wanted to say, and not a one of them would pass his lips.

So he did what he wished people would do for him, and gave Rumlow time to work out what he wanted to say. Sure enough, a few moments later the kid was stuttering out a mess of syllables, but Barnes was able to piece together enough of them to understand the gist of it.

“What happened?” The kid was touching one of the long, thick scars that really looked worse than it had felt at the time; he had gotten shot, and then had to be operated on in order to get the damn bullet out, and the idiots had decided to poke around in his back while they were there anyway. The scar was much longer and thicker due to that little excursion.

“Nothing to worry about. It’s all healed up now,” he assured, giving the kid a sickly little smirk. He couldn’t stomach a real smile, not just then, not talking about the scars that ran around his body like a latticework because he had gotten a knock off serum that only half-assed the accelerated healing. Sure, he healed faster than a normal human, but not nearly as quickly or cleanly as Rogers. Rogers never scarred, either; sometimes Barnes felt like nothing _but_ one big scar.

Rumlow didn’t look so convinced, his fingers lingering on the white puckered scar, tapping lightly before nodding and looking away, suddenly stone faced.

Dammit, but Barnes kept screwing this up.

Who decided it was okay to leave a kid alone with him, again?

“How about we go snatch up some of that free breakfast I was telling you about earlier, huh?” Barnes drawled, finally finding that ever-elusive energy and underlying reason to even get out of bed. He held a hand out to the kid in apology, hoping it would be enough to get on his good side again; he seemed to like dangling off of the metal limb for some reason, even when literally every other person Barnes had ever met had shied away from it at first sight, and honestly, most of them usually steered clear of it long afterwards, too.

It seemed that Barnes was forgiven because Rumlow latched onto his shiny metal fingers without hesitation, letting a small smile tug at his lips. They wandered out of Barnes’ bedroom together, hand in hand, and Barnes wondered idly what his sisters would think of him now. He was trying to be careful and calm, like he woulda with his own baby sisters if he could remember more than snips and snaps of them.

Had he really been a good big brother? He couldn’t rightly remember.

They found Rogers, already back from his ass-crack of dawn torture run with Sam Wilson, hovering around in the kitchen with the stove going along with a suspicious grey cloud starting to form above it. Rogers, oblivious as always, stood at the island, flipping around on his phone like he wasn’t thirty seconds away from a kitchen fire.

What the hell.

Barnes grabbed Rumlow around the waist, hoisting him up onto the counter so he could have a good view of the upcoming show. Rogers glanced up, eyes faraway even as he greeted Barnes distractedly. Barnes, ever the asshole, casually hip checked Rogers out of the way before stepping in to lift the charred pan from the stove and unceremoniously chuck it into the sink. The resulting sizzle and cloud of off-white smoke was satisfying to watch, if nothing else. The little annoyed shriek Rogers let out was pretty satisfying too, if he was being totally honest with himself.

“This is just a downright disgrace, Rogers. You’re nearly 100 years old, you should know how to cook goddamn breakfast by now,” Barnes drawled as he leaned over to grab another pan from the cupboard. He heard Rumlow giggling from his perch on the counter and risked a glance up through his hair, glad he had; the kid was in near-conniptions, tiny hand covering his mouth but doing nothing to hide his wide grin.

It was nice to see the kid had a good sense of humor; Barnes had to admit, he was _damn hilarious_ when he wanted to be.

“It was fine! It was cooking _just fine_!” Rogers complained, making a face at Barnes’ back when all the Soldier did was show off a very specific finger. Rumlow was still giggling madly, his usual suspicion of Rogers apparently lifted, at least temporarily, due to his entertainment value. Rogers seemed to realize this and was willing to get as much use out of the reprieve as he could. He gave Rumlow a big wink before glancing back at Barnes, hands on his hips and face set in an over-exaggerated pout.

“I saw smoke,” Barnes cut in, taking great pleasure in cutting Rogers off before he could even begin to rant. “How you didn’t burn down your apartment before I showed up, I have no fucking clue. You know, _this_ is why you’re not allowed near the fucking appliances, pal. Especially after that stunt you pulled with the stove in that shitty little hellhole before the war.”

“That was in _1936_!” Rogers shrieked, outraged. “Are you ever going to let that fucking _go_?”

Barnes tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling, squinting and scratching at his head in contemplation. Rogers snorted, rolling his eyes. “Don’t try to think too hard, Buck, y’might break somethin’,” he snarked, giving Barnes a smirk and a sneer, just like a good pal would.

“I will _never_ let that go. If I live my whole life without getting another memory back, I will be just _fine and dandy_ because I will have that one time in 1936 when I came home and found the apartment full of _smoke_ and the stove on _fire_ , because you were trying to make _eggs_.” He turned to glance at the sink, which was still smoking ominously. He wasn’t certain what the blackened mass caked to the inside of the pan was originally, but he would bet good money that it had probably been eggs.

70 years and nothing ever really changed.

“I mean, really, what would we have told the landlord? ‘Sorry, the punk nearly burned your building down trying to make breakfast, our bad?’”

Rogers let out a loud, honest guffaw of laughter, leaning forward to fall over his knees, holding his stomach like his gut was about to bust. “To fuck off, maybe?” Rogers muttered between heaving breaths, standing up straight just long enough to wipe at his eyes. He smiled fondly at Barnes’ back before his eyes travelled to the side and he noticed Rumlow again, the little boy’s eyes wide in shock as he stared open mouthed at him.

Oh, _shit_. He had just cussed, _a lot_ , in front of a tiny little impressionable child.

“Fuck. Rumlow. Uh, _Brock_. Don’t repeat that, those are _bad_ words. Fuck!” he breathed out, running a hand down his face, before realizing what he had just said. “ _Shit_! No, sorry! No. Just, don’t say bad words, Brock.” He gave up and turned his face to the ceiling in defeat, his eyes sliding closed in frustration at himself. “Ugh, you know what I’m talking about.”

Barnes was too busy cackling maniacally into his perfectly scrambled eggs to lend a hand to Rogers or check on Rumlow’s reaction. He could absolutely picture it, though; Rumlow’s reaction was probably real similar to Barnes’ own, full of disbelief and humor and exasperation.

Rumlow had literally _just_ been plucked up from a gang of street urchins that lived in the gutters of a large city. Like hell that kid hadn’t picked up a choice word or two, or _twenty_ by this age.

Barnes decided to cut his idiot pal a break and provide a distraction instead, as he piled three plates full of eggs and bacon and toast. When Rogers still looked like he was beating himself up for being so crass in front of an itty bitty baby, Barnes drew him back out of his cloud of funk by waving coffee directly in his face. Rogers took the peace offering as it was and practically inhaled it, looking slightly more human afterwards.

Barnes felt like a damned housewife with every passing moment, but he supposed it was the price he had to pay for fucking edible food in this apartment.

Rogers was staring at Rumlow between shoveling food into his mouth and guzzling hot coffee, but the kid was either ignoring him or just that focused on his own meal. In the end it seemed that he was just ignoring him, as once the kid was finished with his food he turned bright, defensive eyes onto Rogers and said, plain as day, “ _What_.” He raised a cocky eyebrow at Rogers and Captain America felt his face flush red in no time at all.

How could a kid that tiny and adorable be so deadly with just an eyebrow and one word?

“Uh,” Rogers said, drawing the word out, turning to look at Bucky’s flat stare instead. “So. What exactly do we do with a kid? I mean, we don’t have that much experience with children. And being a kid ourselves was a _really long time ago,”_ he hissed at Barnes, hoping Brock wasn’t listening too closely.

As _if_.

Barnes didn’t even bother keeping his voice down. “I don’t know, Mr. Google-Is-My-New-Best-Friend, why don’t you just look it up online? There’s gotta be books or something, right?”

Truthfully, Barnes was a little worried about that too. He didn’t want to screw the damn kid up too bad if he really was gonna be stuck like this. But, he figured, they were either gonna find a way to turn Rumlow back into an angry adult with a one way ticket to prison, or he would stay a kid and grow up the good old-fashioned way. They would figure out what to do if and when it happened. In the meantime, they just had to wing it.

Besides, it’s not like they could really screw the kid up too much in a day or two.

Right?

Rogers graced him with a hearty bitch face before turning back to his phone and taking his advice to heart, grumbling to himself about how he always had to do everything himself, or some other bullshit. After snorting in amusement to himself, Barnes sort of tuned his stupid grumbling out, using Rogers’ current distraction to sneak himself and Rumlow out of the room, leaving the dishes and the lingering smell of smoke and burnt eggs for Rogers to deal with.

They took the elevator up a floor and found Stark on the phone with someone, shouting about clothes and a bedframe and so on. Rumlow and Barnes exchanged identical raised eyebrows while giving Stark and his wildly flailing arms a wide berth. Barnes expertly side-stepped around him to get to the sofa and, more importantly, the television.

“You have your _own television_ on your _own floor_ , Barnes! I know, because I _designed_ that floor and I _bought_ that TV,” Stark shouted from the kitchen, apparently taking a quick break to point out the obvious.

Barnes didn’t even bother answering, instead choosing to flip Stark’s massive TV on and watch Rumlow’s eyes widen in awe and fascination. The kid had obviously grown up with TV, probably seeing them in store fronts more than anywhere else, but the televisions of the _eighties_ were a far cry from the televisions of _now_.

He watched Rumlow stare raptly at the cartoons on the screen for a few minutes before the novelty began to fade and Barnes grew bored. Bothering Stark was always an entertaining pastime, but when he finally stood up and wandered into the kitchen he found that Stark had disappeared, apparently moving his yelling and ranting off to another room.

Barnes settled at the table instead, flicking his fingers across his phone’s screen to check on a few things, with a lack of much else to do. Rumlow would be fine for a while on his own.

Besides, kids _loved_ TV.

 

Little Brock Rumlow had never seen anything so cool in all his life. Sure, robot superheroes were pretty cool and all, and apparently he was living in the same building as the _real_ Captain America, but those things lost their shine after a day or two. This TV was _amazing_ : the cartoons were so bright and fast and he could sit there all day, just watching them.

This. Was. Awesome.

He was so entranced by the TV that it took him a stupid amount of time to realize that there was someone else in the room with him. During a commercial break, Brock glanced around the room and practically jumped right out of his skin when he saw a man sitting in an armchair not five feet from him.

That guy had to be _super_ sneaky! He hadn’t even heard him come in!

The man was really scruffy looking, like he hadn’t been able to take real good care of himself in weeks. He had a short, scraggly beard that looked super prickly, and Brock really wanted to poke it to see for sure. He had funny looking scars on his face, one really bad one making it so his left eye always looked like it was squinting. He was wearing all black, a funny looking harness around his chest. And he was just sitting there, legs sprawled out in front of him, face blank and eyes dark, just staring at Rumlow. He wasn’t smiling but he wasn’t glaring, either; he was just sort of there, a befuddled sort of stupor to his face.

“Um,” Rumlow started, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa, a feeling like pins and needles wrapping around him beneath that man’s dark stare. “Hi?”

The man didn’t say a word, or move, or really react in any way at all. Rumlow kept the guy in his peripheral as he turned back to the TV, his show back from the commercials now. “Have you seen this cartoon before? I know you’re a grown up, but sometimes grown ups like to watch cartoons, too.” Still nothing. That dark gaze wasn’t lifting so Rumlow sighed, scrunched himself up as small as he could, and tried to become one with the sofa. He tried to keep an eye on the guy but soon enough the show had piqued his interest again and it was hard to remember he was there what with him being so quiet and all.

When Barnes walked into the room a few minutes later, Rogers hot on his heels, the scary guy was gone. Rumlow’s face screwed up in surprise and he flipped himself up and over the back of the sofa, walking over warily until he was right next to the chair.

Barnes seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to Rumlow and was instantly on high alert. “Hey, kid. What’s the problem?”

Rumlow frowned, his tiny face screwed up in a glare as his suspicious eyes flitted around the room. “There was a guy in here a few minutes ago, he just sat here and wouldn’t talk to me, and he looked really scary. I don’t know where he went, though. He was really, really quiet.”

Barnes straightened up, back ram rod straight as he started scoping out the room, too. Everyone with access to this floor knew who Rumlow was and had already met him. The kid should have recognized whoever it was, even if he didn’t know all of their names.

“JARVIS? Who was he talking to?”

There was no answer for a frightening amount of time, and then JARVIS’ voice came through the speakers, sounding uncertain. “My sensors have not picked up any other people with young Master Rumlow since you left the room, Sergeant Barnes.”

That didn’t sit well with Barnes at all. It also seemed to make Rumlow that much more frustrated. “Did somebody mess with your sensors, JARVIS? Could someone get around your cameras?”

“I do not believe so, sir, but I will run a full diagnostic right away.” Barnes came to stand beside Rumlow, a hand on his shoulder tugging him into his side.

“You okay, though, kid? He didn’t touch you or nothing, right?”

Rumlow rolled his eyes and shook his head, that tiny scowl making another reappearance. “Naw. He jus’ sat there and stared. Wouldn’t talk to me or nothin’.”

Barnes met Rogers’ eyes overtop the kid’s head and gave him a jerky nod, grim and determined. “I’ll let Tony know what happened,” Rogers said, practically sprinting from the room. Barnes stayed with Rumlow, one arm slung around his shoulders, the TV long forgotten in all the excitement.

“Is he a bad guy or something? Is that why everyone’s so freaked out?” Rumlow’s voice was tiny and muffled as he huddled there against Barnes’ side. He grabbed onto Barnes’ shirt, fisting a hand in the material and shoving his face into Barnes’ stomach.

“We don’t know,” Barnes admitted truthfully. “JARVIS should have video of him, though. It’s a little worrying that somebody was able to sneak up here without anybody seeing him. I mean, I was only in the kitchen; if anybody would have heard him moving around, it woulda been me.” Barnes was glaring now, too, angry at himself for putting the kid at risk.

He thought maybe he had been a stupidly overprotective big brother, back when it had mattered, but now he wondered if he had shirked his duties back then like he had just now. Would his sisters have clung to him like Rumlow was now, shaking because Barnes hadn’t done all he could to keep him safe?

“Okay,” Rumlow said, voice shaky and timid. “I mean,” he tried again, voice strengthening just a bit as he peeked up at Barnes, “He didn’t _seem_ like a bad guy or nothin’. At least, I don’t think so. He just looked real tired, and dirty, and empty. And maybe like he wasn’t real sure why he was there, neither.”

“Alright, kid.” Barnes shoved an affectionate hand through the kid’s short hair, maybe a little rougher than necessary but he was still riding out the adrenaline rush. “Let’s forget about this shit for now. We’ll go do something fun, let Stark and Rogers deal with the searchin’. How about I show you the gym, huh?”

Rumlow didn’t look so sure, but he nodded along anyway, grabbing onto Barnes’ hand. Once they were down in the gym, his mood improved greatly. The kid hopped around, flinging himself from one thing to the next. When he found the bouncy balls, he practically fell over himself chasing after them.

Barnes hovered by the boxing ring, leaning against it with his arms crossed, keeping an eagle on the kid. He’d be damned if something like that happened again. About an hour later, Rogers popped up again, settling beside Barnes and copying his posture. “Tony says he’s taking a look at JARVIS’s code, and the security cameras, to see if they can catch any sign of this guy.”

“Good. Hopefully he can figure out who the hell it was, so I can bash his head in all proper-like.” Rogers was side-eying him hard and Barnes knew it, but he was goddamn pissed off. Barnes shuffled uncomfortably, inwardly groaning at himself. “Kid’s our responsibility. Somebody coulda hurt him real bad. I wanna know what this mystery man was doing up there, and how in the hell he got past all’a Stark’s damn security.”

“Tony had the security team check the whole building, but they didn’t find anybody suspicious. I don’t know what happened, Buck.”

They stood in silence again, just watching Rumlow run around the gym like the carefree kid he should have always been growing up. Rogers sighed and shifted from foot to foot, biting his lip before finally spitting it out. “I don’t wanna start no fights, Buck, but do you think Brock could be lying?”

He flinched before Barnes even opened his mouth. “I can tell when people are fucking _lying_ , Rogers, and that kid isn’t. He was way too confused about why we were freaking out to have made it up. He doesn’t understand what this means. He just thinks some weird guy that wouldn’t talk to him showed up, sat down, and then disappeared.”

“Alright, Buck. I hear you.” They fell into silence again until Rogers tried for a joke, attempting to cut down on the tension quickly suffocating them. “You know,” he started, glancing over at Barnes, “I was reading up on parenting and shit before all this happened. All the books and websites say you should limit TV time, makes kids stupid or something.”

It was silent for all of five seconds before Barnes started chuckling into his chest, chin tucked down against his sternum to hide the grin. “Then what’s _your_ goddamn excuse, huh? We certainly didn’t have TV as kids, and look what happened to _you_.” Rogers punched him in the arm, a wide smile on his face all the same, apparently happy to take the ribbing if it meant that the tension had faded away.

Rumlow popped up then, still keeping Rogers at a good healthy distance. Why the kid had latched onto Barnes and not Rogers’ star spangled ass was beyond them both. “Mr. Barnes,” the kid asked, voice sweet as sugar, “can you play wit’ me?” He looked nervous about it, like he wasn’t so sure Barnes would say yes.

The kid apparently hadn’t caught on yet just what Barnes would put up with to see his damn smile light up his wee little face.

Probably safest to keep it that way.

Barnes glanced over at Rogers and gave the other man a big, mean smirk. “Sure thing, kid. Whaddaya wanna play, hmm?”

Rumlow’s face lit up like it was Christmas morning and Barnes gave him his best imitation, stretching his lips up as much as he could. It was still hard to smile some days. Rumlow reached out to grab Barnes’ hand and made to tug, but then he turned around and glanced up at Rogers, too.

“Would you like to play too, Mr. Captain America?” He was biting his lip, uncertain once again, but Rogers gave him an ‘ _aww shucks’_ look back, scuffing his foot against the floor with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“If that’s okay with you, Brock. What are we gonna play, kiddo?”

Rumlow smiled big and excited back, reaching out to grab onto Rogers’ hand, too. He then proceeded to drag them to the other side of the gym and show them his favorite games set up there.

Shortly after that, they realized just how light Rumlow really was, as they spent the next half hour playing catch with the kid, _literally_. Barnes had thought it would be funny to toss the kid at Rogers when he hadn’t been expecting it, and they just hadn’t stopped. The kid was having the time of his life, looking close to pissing himself with laughter more than once.

“What. The. _Hell_.” Someone was shouting at them and Rogers froze mid-toss, face guilty as fuck, Rumlow dangling precariously from his hands. “ _Rogers_. Drop that kid _right now_. No one would ever trust me with a child but even I know you don’t just toss them around like a baseball!”

Stark stomped down from the stairs and down to the gym floor, giving Rogers a severely disappointed glare. Rogers slowly lowered the giggling boy to the ground, taking a step back and shoving his hands behind his back.

“It wasn’t _my_ idea! Bucky started it!”

Stark just stared at him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow when Rogers just stood there. “And how old are we, grandpa? You’re really going to use the ‘I didn’t do it’ excuse?” When Rogers didn’t do anything but blush, Stark seemed willing to cut his losses and just give in. “Whatever. I don’t care. I _don’t_ , really. I just came here to tell you the tyke’s room is all made up. Thought he would wanna go check it out.”

Rumlow, already red faced and energetic from the game, was now practically vibrating in place. “Really? Wow! Please?” he screeched, turning on Barnes like it was his decision. “Please, Mr. Barnes! Can we?”

Barnes rolled his eyes. “Sure thing, kid.” Rumlow was back to holding his hand, and Barnes would have been annoyed if it wasn’t so goddamn cute. The kid led them back to the elevator and shimmied in place, squirming in excitement. “How’d you know what to get for a kid, anyway?” Barnes asked, looking over his shoulder to glance at Stark.

“I’m not an idiot, Barnes. It’s honestly not that difficult.” When Barnes and Rogers both gave him identical ‘are you shitting me right now’ looks, Stark practically pouted, instead choosing to glare down at his phone like this was all its fault. “Okay, so maybe JARVIS gave me a list of the basics and I expanded off of it, alright? Happy now?”

The elevator spit them out on their floor. They had just been using a spare bedroom for the kid, and Rumlow tore off down the hall to get there first. Stark followed him, easily shoving the door open for the kid to peek inside before going back to his phone. Stark’s ears flared bright red when he heard Rumlow’s pterodactyl screech of joy as the kid dive bombed into his room.

“Wow!” he shouted when he finally came up for air, swiveling his head wildly to take it all in. The ceiling was covered in glow in the dark stars, there was a tiny little bed just big enough for Rumlow, and books and toys scattered everywhere. “This is all for _me_?”

He whirled around, looking to Stark for an answer. Stark glanced up from his phone just long enough to give a jerky little nod, shifting around uncomfortably when Rogers and Barnes turned to look at him, too. “Everything you could possibly need. If you think of anything else, I can always have JARVI- _oof_!” Stark nearly toppled over when Rumlow tackled his legs, latching on and squeezing for all he was worth.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark! Thank you! I never had my own room before. Or so many toys! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He gave him one more good squeeze before jumping back into his treasure trove. Stark still looked a little uncomfortable, but at least he had a little smirk tugging at his lips now.

“Oh, give in. The kid’s getting to you and you know it,” Barnes teased, rolling his eyes at Stark’s antics. Stark gave him his most offended look, puffing himself up like a freakin’ peacock.

“No. The kid’s just polite, unlike _some people_. I was just shocked at the thank you. I never get any gratitude in this building, I swear!” he grumbled, taking the chance to leave while he could, muttering to himself as he dived back into his phone and stomped off. Barnes and Rogers watched him go before turning back to Rumlow, who was now gleefully rolling around in a pile of stuffed animals.

“How the hell is Tony so good with him?” Rogers asked, sounding shocked and confused and just a little jealous.

Barnes just shrugged, not willing to touch that mess with a ten foot pole.

“This day has been crazy, and it’s not even noon yet,” Rogers grumbled, shaking his head. Barnes hummed noncommittedly, rolling his shoulders to get rid of some of the tension gathering there. The man wasn’t _wrong_ , it had been pretty stressful, but it could have been way worse.

They could have a had a dead kid on their hands, or a kidnapped one. Might have had a concussed one, too, now that he thought harder about their little game of catch.

Yeah, that probably hadn’t been the smartest thing to do.

“We’re gonna get that damn kid dead,” Barnes remarked placidly, staring at Rumlow with vacant eyes. “What the hell do we think we’re doing with a kid, again?”

“Buck. You’re the one that wanted to keep him around. You said it yourself, we’re either gonna fix him or figure it out. I’m sure we can try to get in touch with someone. I mean, somebody _has_ to know what the hell happened. It just might take a while.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Barnes grumbled, but that did help, at least a little bit. He turned to watch the kid instead of thinking about what was going to happen next. The kid was so damn happy and carefree that he was difficult to reconcile with the man he had grown up to be. There was very little of this child in the Hydra agent Barnes and Rogers had known.

Barnes frowned, growling lowly to himself; since when did he give a shit about Rumlow. This wasn’t going to end in anything but fire and pain; it was stupid to get so attached to the kid. But then the damn boy would look up at him with that big smile and those cute little dimples, and Barnes knew he was a goner.

He was screwed, and he knew it.

Was it bad that Barnes almost hoped they couldn’t find a way to change the bastard back? _Baby Rumlow_ was much better company than _Grown Up Asshole Rumlow_ , anyway. Surely nobody would miss him.

Right?

**Author's Note:**

> Маленький волк - little wolf
> 
> Let me know what you think! I don't have any more of this written, so it will probably be a while before I can update. Be on the lookout!


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